


perda de memória

by bleakmidwinter



Series: Memories of Cape Verde [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Cape Verde, Dancing, Drunken Kissing, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall, Post-Season/Series 03, Revelations, i've finally written the amnesia fic i've always wanted to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27539119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleakmidwinter/pseuds/bleakmidwinter
Summary: After the fall, Hannibal wakes with no memory. Will must navigate their escape to Cape Verde and deal with Hannibal even while he does not remember him.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Memories of Cape Verde [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2012899
Comments: 30
Kudos: 260





	perda de memória

**Author's Note:**

> perda de memória  
> english translation from portuguese; memory loss

_He is engulfed in cold, drenched in it from head to toe._

_Pain lights up his whole body, each and every nerve set aflame. It is almost a distant thing, the pain, not immediate even as every fiber of his being is howling to return to the darkness._

_The darkness is getting lighter._

The muddy feeling of being wrapped in a dream is loosening, his eyes are fluttering open to a salty sting, gaze falling upon a delicate man with a ferocious expression. His beard is painted in blood from a gash on his cheek, and his eyes are an icy blue, as icy as he feels inside and out. 

There is a spark of relief in the man’s eyes when he registers his consciousness, but the ferocity comes back to him tenfold.

He catches himself. 

“Chiyoh,” the man repeats, and he knows he’s said it before, has been saying it to get him to wake from his empty reverie. “How do I call Chiyoh?” 

Without thinking, or understanding what the significance of the name _Chiyoh_ is, he glances towards the third shelf of a bookcase standing tall in the far corner of the living room. The man with blue eyes doesn’t need any instructions, going amicably to that very shelf and digging through the dusted collection until he finds a small black book. 

_How did I know?_

It must be a book of numbers, because the man is fishing out a phone from his pocket. It isn’t a cellphone, a house phone rather, most likely stuffed there while waiting for his guest to wake. 

_Am I his guest?_ The man on the couch wonders, watching the other absently. 

“Chiyoh, it’s Will. Hannibal is injured.” 

_Hannibal._ The name sounds familiar and foreign all at once. _I assume that’s me._

Hannibal looks down at his body for the first time and finds himself wrapped in bandages, almost to the point of resembling a Halloween store mummy. With great effort, he holds back a laugh, having an odd hunch about the possibility of broken ribs. 

He’s missed a portion of the conversation while having this revelation, and he blinks fast, attempting to focus. The man on the phone (Will, as he’d stated) is bristly, biting out responses like he deserves answers yesterday. There is a soft feminine voice coming through the line. 

“Two hours? I’ve already wasted an hour trying to wake him up,” Will barks out, stupendously agitated in the firm way he runs a hand over his face, only along his good cheek. “Okay, fine. We’ll be here.” 

Will places the phone on the bookshelf in front of him, and tucks the phone book in the back of his pants, storing it away for some reason.

He returns to Hannibal’s side, kneeling down so they can speak face to face. 

“Chiyoh says you have a boat docked nearby. We can be on water in two hours. Do we need anything?” he asks. 

Hannibal stares, wide-eyed with confusion. He shakes his head, not positive why he does. 

He is almost diffident about what this man may do if he tells him that he has no clue where he is, who Will is, who he himself is, and what they are doing. He doesn’t know why there is a boat, and why they have to be on the water. 

Why they are injured, even.

Hannibal looks Will up and down who is continuing to look more and more bothered by his reactions. 

_Who are you?_ Hannibal wonders, a feeling approaching fondness gingerly spreading throughout his immediate thoughts. _Why do I trust you?_

There certainly isn’t much reason to trust, but he supposes it’s better than waking up alone and having no clue what the next step is. 

Hannibal cranes his neck to the left despite the ache, desperate to get a better look at the house. One of the broad windows lining the north end of the complex is smashed, the panel crumbled to pieces on the rug.

He makes a note not to step on that. 

The opening in the wall leads out onto a midnight terrace, a view of dirt and gravel. The edge of a cliff is not far off, the sight of which casts a feeling of dread deep inside of him, then his eyes set on the bloody brutalized body of another man. His heart skips a beat. 

“Did we kill him?” he hears himself ask. 

When there is a pause, he turns to look at Will who is staring at him perplexed, then he cracks a shaky smile, twitching from the pain in his cheek. 

“I’d say tearing someone’s throat out with your teeth qualifies as pretty damn dead, Hannibal,” he responds, “How are you feeling?” 

From the words, Hannibal tastes blood in his mouth. He thought it was his own at first, but now he wonders if it is from the man masked in shadows, lying flat on his back outside. 

_What happened and why can’t I remember?_

“Like death,” he murmurs, staring back at the body. 

The man chuckles, “Yeah, me too.”

Hannibal turns back to him, and realizes the man before him is watching him expectantly, with an intensity rivaling the Greek Gods. It is as if he needs something from him.

It is unnerving, as most things have been in his recent wake. 

“No,” Will mutters, and Hannibal can see the realization wash over him. Hannibal has to wonder how it took him this long to catch on. “You’re not–” He scoots closer, eyes narrowed. Desperation emits from him in waves. “What is my name?” 

“I…” Hannibal has an overwhelming urge not to disappoint him. “I’m unsure.”

He had said on the phone “Will” but he doesn’t know his full name, if that’s nothing but a code name. He does not know this man. 

In response, the man’s face winces like he’d been flicked on the nose, and he looks down between them, staring at a space on the couch cushion. Blood has sunk in past his bandages, leaking into the fabric. 

“Will Graham,” he tells him softly. His tone curbs sharply, suddenly bitter and full of venom, “Bastard. Only _you_ would do this to me.” 

He’s not looking at him, almost as if he’s addressing another person. 

Will gathers his faculties, straightening his posture and letting out a deep sigh, rough from repetition. “What _do_ you remember?” 

“I remember being cold and damp,” Hannibal starts slowly, feeling like he’s walking on thin ice. He can sense this man’s wolfish nature beneath sheep’s clothing. He is easy to irritate, and hard to soften. However, he tries his best to remain neutral. “I woke to you asking me where Chiyoh’s number was. Anything before then is lost.” 

“Christ,” Will breathes, waits a beat. “How did you know where the phone book was?” 

Hannibal shakes his head. 

“I looked on instinct. I didn’t know.”

Will nods. “This isn’t good Hannibal. You were supposed to have everything figured out. We’re basically dead in the water if I’m in charge.” 

“Can you explain what happened here?” Hannibal asks, curiosity growing fiercer by the second. His head hurts immensely when he attempts to think back, before his blackout. To think anything about his surroundings makes his temples throb, agonizingly. 

Yet, Will’s face brings a strange sense of tranquility. 

Will checks the clock behind them, and nods. 

“We certainly have the time, but I’m not going to tell you anything important about you or me until we’re on the water, okay? It’s more than a lot to process. I haven’t even finished processing it, if I’m being honest.” 

Hannibal nods. “Thank you, Will.”

Saying Will’s name seems to effect him, because his eyes shift down between them once again. A myriad of emotions cross his pale features before he relaxes and turns back. 

“Right now all you need to know is that the two of us killed that man outside. We fell from the cliff and survived. I have tended to our wounds, and the police will be looking for us. Hence, the boat.” 

“We are criminals?” 

“I’ll tell you more later,” Will snaps. “Sit tight.” 

Hannibal nods again, knowing there’s not much else to do other than obey Will’s orders. He waits as Will retreats further into the house. 

The lights are off save a lamp in the living room, and it gives the space a hellish quality. Perhaps he is dead, and this is purgatory. Cursed to repeat a loop, oblivious to his surroundings and place in this universe. That isn’t it though. Too easy. Something tells him that he doesn’t even believe in purgatory, heaven, or hell. 

The words _Fate_ and _Circumstance_ come to mind. 

Will returns with a blanket. When he arranges it across Hannibal’s chest it is gentle, almost loving. Hannibal lies perfectly still as the blanket is tucked under his arms, wrapping him snug. 

“You said you were cold,” Will reminds, backing up when he’s finished. 

“Who is Chiyoh?” Hannibal questions, regretting the choice to ask for more when Will’s brow twitches. “I apologize, I merely want to understand.”

Like butter, Will melts at the apology. Hannibal is starting to think he was wrong about this man being hard to soften. 

Will pulls up a chair so he can sit in front of Hannibal. He winces along the way, dealing with his own injuries it seems. 

Hannibal doesn’t know how he knows, but he can tell his right arm is dislocated.

“Chiyoh is a friend of yours. A family friend, even.” 

There seems to be a joke Hannibal is missing, but instead of prying for more information, he offers, “Can I help you with that?” 

Will stiffens. “With what?” 

“Your arm. It needs to be reset.” 

“And how did you know that?”

“I don’t know,” he responds honestly. 

It seems an efficient answer for Will who scoots the chair closer and turns his right side towards Hannibal. Hannibal shifts up, pain screaming up and down his spine but he is surprisingly able to manage it. He’s sure it is the shock and adrenaline of his new surroundings helping him to suppress the aches and tears.

 _Or perhaps that’s just me. Superhuman,_ he thinks smugly.

Hannibal sets his hands on Will’s arm, and Will gasps.

“It will only hurt for a moment,” he comforts, but the other man doesn’t seem to care. 

He moves the bone harshly, and hears the muted pop as it is rammed back into place. Will bites through the skin of his hand with a grunt, sighing in relief when Hannibal leans back down on the couch, tugging the blanket closer to his chin. 

There is a pregnant silence, and Hannibal feels as if he should say something.

But, he has nothing to relate to anything, to reference. 

“Am I a doctor?” he asks after a few minutes of staring and pondering.

Will nods. “Yeah, but I used to think your handwriting was a little too good for it.” 

Hannibal smiles for the first time since waking up. Will is gloriously sardonic, something that appeals to him immensely for reasons he cannot put a label on. 

“A criminal and a doctor,” he muses.

Will snorts. “I keep pleasant company.” 

“Who are you?” Hannibal asks him, and Will’s eyes snap up, looking volatile. “Besides being Will Graham, who are you?” 

Will’s lips part, and there seems to be a sudden vast distance between them despite their proximity. He looks over Hannibal’s face, swallowing an upsurge of _something_ that is desperate to rise to the surface. 

“Your friend,” he responds.

* * *

Hannibal had passed out one hour into waiting for Chiyoh to arrive. Will had told him it was alright, that he’d keep a watch on things while they waited.

For all Hannibal knew, he’d be waking up dead, or in that case, not waking up at all. 

Instead, he wakes up to a rocking sensation and new surroundings. 

The room is small, lined with gum wood paneled walls. His eyesight is fuzzy, but he can make out a purple carpet, deep and a far cry from royal. The light that hangs above him sways with the movements of the boat. Back and forth. It is dim, yet still blinding as he stares up into the bulb. 

Will is beside him he notices, asleep on his stomach, face turned towards Hannibal. 

He has had a change of clothes, in a brown sweater and black jeans. They seem to be his perfect size, so Hannibal assumes he must have had clothes of his own on the boat somewhere. Or perhaps this Chiyoh woman had brought them.

He likes to think he’d bought this man clothes at some point, kept them on his boat in the hopes of traveling. He doesn’t know why he wants to believe such a thing. 

They had not talked about much after Will had told him he was his friend. Will had just discussed their whereabouts. Told him they were somewhere in New England, that they were enemies with the FBI, and that they needed to leave as soon as possible and head south, somewhere safe, somewhere different. 

Somewhere their enemies can’t find them. 

He feels oddly comforted with Will’s body beside him, in the not so big queen sized bed. 

Hell knows where they are now, either in the middle of the ocean or still at wherever the boat had been docked. It feels as if they are sailing, and he hopes they are. 

It is not so long after he wakes that a stunning Japanese woman enters the room. The woman looks young and old all at once. She carries a tray of two ice waters with straws and four pills. 

“Hannibal. You’re awake.” 

Her voice reminds him of pins and needles, sharp and purposeful.

“Chiyoh, I assume.”

“He told me about your memory loss,” she says simply, moving closer with the tray. He works to sit up, but she places a dainty hand on his chest, keeping him low. 

The glasses are placed on the bedside table, in cupholders. She hand feeds two of the pills to Hannibal, and helps him drink from the glass by pointing the straw into his mouth. 

“Where are we going?” he asks, still desperate to know the specifics. 

She raises a brow, turning towards Will who is sleeping like a log. 

“He wanted to tell you,” she replies. 

“And will you tell me if I ask again?” 

“Yes, I have no loyalties to him. Will you ask me again?” 

Hannibal glances down at Will, and he feels something ache inside of his chest.

There is an almost alarming sense of agency arising within him, responding to this woman he does not recognize. He feels as if he harnesses power of some sort, and yet he will concede to the man who’s place in his life he does not yet understand.

“No, I’ll wait. Thank you, Chiyoh.”

“Of course.” 

She leaves without another word, and Hannibal feels like a weight has lifted from his shoulders. The conversation with her had been easy and familiar, like he'd been seconds from remembering something important. _Fascinating_. 

Hannibal settles back atop the cushions, and turns to face Will who had not stirred the entire time Chiyoh had been in the room. His fingers are resting loose, close to Hannibal’s face. A part of Hannibal encourages him to reach out and intertwine their hands. Instead, he chooses to snake his hand up towards his, and let his fingers brush up against the other man’s, not holding or insinuating. 

In Will’s slumber, his fingers twitch against Hannibal’s, inching closer. 

When he falls asleep, Hannibal’s index finger is resting against Will’s. 

He wakes up to Will chugging down one of the water glasses from the bedside table. He is taking the other two pills. Painkillers, Hannibal intuits. His own pain is hazy at most. 

“You’re awake,” Will observes. “Chiyoh tells me you woke up a while ago.” 

“Just long enough to take my pills.”

Will looks him over as if checking for injuries made in the night, and he seems satisfied when he finds no nightly incursions made on his body, head to toe. 

“Will you tell me what our destination is now?” Hannibal asks, hopeful. 

Will has been expecting this it seems, but it doesn’t stop him from looking peeved. 

He sits down on the bed beside Hannibal and looks into his eyes, almost testing him to see if he’s faking it. Hannibal wonders what he must have done to Will to make him think everything is a game to be played.

“Are you scared?” Will asks, evading the question.

“No,” Hannibal answers, ruthlessly meeting his eyes. 

Will swallows with a click, dry amusement in his voice when he says, “See, if I were in your situation, I’d be terrified. Not knowing where I’m going, side by side with a killer. Not knowing who I am, or why I am being hunted.” 

“I have not felt fear for a moment since waking up. There is a subtle sense of trust when I look at you, though I do not understand why. I find it comforting that fate has left me in your hands even if my memories have been taken as consequence.” 

“Is that right?” Will asks, glancing for a moment at Hannibal’s lips then turning away as he catches himself. “We didn’t fall from the cliff, I dragged us off.” 

Will looks at him again, ready for some form of punishment, or a challenge perhaps. Hannibal acknowledges it is quite difficult to predict what this man might be feeling. 

“You must have had a good reason,” Hannibal tells him simply, with an edge of humor. 

Will bares his teeth, lunging off the bed to pace before the foot of it. He shucks his hands into his pockets, and Hannibal notices only now that the scar in his cheek has been glued closed. _Skin glue,_ he assumes. Though again, he does not know where the assumption rises from. 

“Cape Verde,” Will says a moment later, running a hand through his snarled curls.

“Just off the west coast of Africa,” Hannibal states. 

“Yeah, Chiyoh said you have property there. We’ll be safe for a while, hopefully as long as it takes for your memories to come back. We don’t know if this was your first plan. I don’t know if you even had a plan when you knew you were free, but we’re going there. There’s apparently no extradition treaty with the U.S.”

Hannibal’s head feels warm, and there is a tingling sensation that comes with imagining what Cape Verde looks like. He can see water, beach sand. Red and white cemented walls.

“Baía das Gatas.” 

Will shoots him a sideways glare. 

“What?” 

“I’m not sure, but I believe that is the village where I purchased the property.”

“You remember?” Will asks, voice paper thin. 

“No, I…” Hannibal clears his throat, and it suddenly feels painfully dry. With a trembling hand, he reaches for his water on the bedside table, and Will rushes to his side, holding the cup out for him so he can take steady sips from the straw. _His fostering, always a surprise._ When Hannibal’s finished, he bows his head in gratitude. “I had a feeling, and the words just came to mind.”

“Strange,” Will mutters. “Do you know how this could have happened?” 

“Amnesia can be caused by several factors. It could have been head trauma, emotional distress, sudden immersion in hot or cold water, which is what I fear may have happened when we fell from the cliffside. Even sexual intercourse can cause something called transient global amnesia.” 

A laugh stumbles out of Will, and Hannibal is shocked by how sweet it sounds. 

“You’re pulling my chain.”

“I am not,” Hannibal assures with a smile, then frowns again. “In all actuality, I am not sure if I am. I have the knowledge, and I’m positive I’m right, but I do not remember becoming a Doctor, earning my license. I could be a fraud for all I know.”

“You’re a fraud for a bundle of reasons, but you’re an excellent Doctor,” Will tells him, nearing affectionate. Hannibal has to wonder how he can be so adoring and so affronted in such a limited amount of time. 

Besides these ponderings, he feels flushed. Apparently he likes his ego being stroked. 

“Is there a way I can get you to remember?” Will asks, abruptly impatient. 

“Associations may help,” Hannibal suggests. “Imagery and verbal reminders. Things like songs, scents, certain words can all be triggers. Though, there is no actual cure, as it is a different experience for everyone.” 

“If only I was still suffering from Encephalitis,” he mutters.

“Hmm?”

“You smelled my neck once, it’s, nevermind–” he rambles, flustered.

Hannibal holds back a smile. “Perhaps start with names.” 

Will nods slowly, scooting closer so his feet are on the bed and no longer touching the floor. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, opening them again to reveal determined, pinpoint pupils. 

“Mischa,” he says with great magnitude. 

Hannibal blinks, pretending to recall something, but he is forced to shake his head in the end. Nothing comes to mind, barely even an agitating buzz in his temples. Will seems disappointed, but he presses on. 

“Abigail,” he says next, voice strained. 

This strikes up more of a headache, but he doesn’t recall anything. 

Hannibal shakes his head and Will sighs. 

“I feel ridiculous,” Will murmurs, looking down between them. _Hopeless,_ left unsaid. 

“Yet you are doing me a remarkable favor. Swallowing your pride to help me remember. It may seem ridiculous now, but I do appreciate it. Even if I cannot recall the memories themselves, I have been yearning for more context.”

Will looks up, and his expression is warmer, blanketed with defeat. It appears he wants to reach out and touch him, and Hannibal can’t say that he would stop him, but he doesn’t. 

“Alana Bloom.” 

“Nothing.”

“Bedelia,” Will grits out. 

There’s something there. A spark in his mind, very faint, yet extremely present. This name, there is something different about her than the others. He can’t put his finger on what it is.

Will doesn’t look pleased to see Hannibal remembering anything about her. 

“I do not know who she is though there is a feeling in my mind that she is either an old flame or a threat,” he admits. “It is unsettling.”

“Why can’t someone be both?” Will mumbles, refusing to elaborate. Hannibal feels starkly guilty for upsetting Will, even though he has no control on who or what he remembers.

Will seems to tire from the name game after a few more failures, and then a thoughtful expression crosses his face. Hannibal tilts his head, questioning, and Will lifts up his shirt a fraction, bundling the fabric in one hand. This reveals a scar on his belly, almost in the shape of a smile. It looks old, though it is jagged and pink against his creamy smooth skin. 

Hannibal startles when Will takes one of his hands and places it over the scar. 

He looks up at Will, shocked he is allowing this, but Will only stares back intently, prodding him silently to touch it. To remember. 

Hannibal strokes his fingers over the scar, and his head fills with warmth. Memories do not flood back, but feelings do. Regret, betrayal, love, rage, forgiveness. They come to him so quickly he cannot pick apart which ones he is feeling in this instant and which ones have grown old, lost, and fragmented. 

Will’s breath hitches and his hand curls around Hannibal’s wrist when he drags the nail of his thumb over the scar. They glance at each other, and there is ardent heat in the undercurrents, cutting through the tension. Hannibal suddenly understands who Will is to him. 

He doesn’t need to be told. 

Will jerks away, lowering his shirt over the scar. He averts his gaze and the heat is lost, almost as if it had never been there.

“Nothing, I’m sorry,” Hannibal lies. There had been something, but he’s either too chicken to say it, or he is for some reason sparing Will embarrassment. He doesn’t think he’s afraid, but it’s the first time he’s felt anything resembling fear since waking. Whatever this is, it’s fragile.

Will knows he can’t remember, he doesn’t need to say it. The disappointment is there, riddled throughout his body, making him rigid. He continues to stare in any direction that isn’t in the direction of Hannibal. 

“I’m going to go talk with Chiyoh,” Will says in a low voice, cold and cutting. 

“I’ll rest more.”

“Yeah, yeah you do that,” Will murmurs in reply, standing and staring at the wall for a moment before turning to leave. He pauses in the doorway. 

“Do you speak Portuguese?” he asks. 

Hannibal thinks about it for a moment, registering they’re back on the topic of Cape Verde. He doesn’t know why else he’d buy a residency in a country where he doesn’t speak the language. He’s sure the words will come to him when he’s in a situation where he needs them.

“I believe so. I should be fluent enough.” 

“At least there’s that,” Will sighs, and he’s gone. 

* * *

Their villa in Baía das Gatas, São Vicente is a stunning piece of real estate. 

The exterior is bone white to match the fencing. There are bright red panels decorating the walls and the windows, even a red door. It stands out stark against other homes, but it is discreet enough to be dismissed as a modernly fashionable residency for a rich family. 

There is a roof terrace Hannibal likes to spend his time, drawing the sea which is not far off at all. He’s discovered he’s something of a swimmer. 

Their yard is practically sand, though it is more gravely than it is closer to the shore. He still likes to walk barefoot to the water, feel the waves wind in and out of the crevices of his toes. 

Formerly a fishing village in Cape Verde, Will is able to engage in his passion for angling. Hannibal had learned quickly that not only is it a hobby, but that Will is quite the expert in fly fishing. Apparently he’d already known this. Apparently he’d known many things about Will that Will is still stubbornly determined to keep from him.

Chiyoh had left after the first day, begrudgingly leaving Will with access to Hannibal’s accounts and deeds. Will had taken them in stride, though he had gotten drunk almost immediately after. 

It is quite a lot of pressure to look after another person’s assets. 

Chiyoh had bowed to Hannibal and requested he call her if and when his memories returned. Then, she had been on her merry way. 

The first week had been heaven, a welcome vacation while wounds started to heal and itch. It felt good to sink his entire body into the salty bite of the Atlantic Ocean. 

The first day of the second week, Will had started getting drunk every night. 

He refuses to go in the ocean, refuses to do much of anything other than fish and drink. He doesn’t often want to talk to Hannibal, avoiding him and keeping to himself as much as possible as they mend back together.

They sleep in separate bedrooms. 

There had been six at one point in time, Hannibal knows that much, but two of the bedrooms have been turned into studies, one of which Will has been occupying on a regular basis. Inside, his time is spent crafting fishing lures and fixing appliances that seem to keep breaking all over the house. 

Rice and beans from the boat don’t hold their appetite forever, and Will takes the first trip to the grocery store, coming back with bags upon bags of ingredients. 

For the first time since they’ve settled, Will looks hopeful. 

“You’re cooking,” Will commands, and who is Hannibal to deny an old friend?

“If you think I’ll be any good,” Hannibal murmurs, flirtatious and guilty as charged. 

Will blinks, letting out a trembling sigh. He does that often when Hannibal says something he likes, but he knows he shouldn’t like. Hannibal wonders how Will would react to his flirtation if his memories were intact. Would he be more amenable to suggestion? 

“It’s sort of your thing,” he tells him. “I can look up a recipe if you want.” 

“I think I know what I want to make,” Hannibal answers, observing the brown bags filled with produce and bread. “If that is alright.” 

“Yeah,” Will replies, a tad breathless. “Go crazy.” 

Hannibal half expects him to leave the kitchen, but Will stays.

He sits himself down on one of the barstools lining the lengthy marble countertop. Hannibal watches him for a moment, delighted by his uninebriated company, before getting to work. 

Instead of making the base of the meal from anything Will bought, he instead uses the enormous cod fish Will caught. They’ve been keeping it frozen. 

Will smiles when Hannibal slaps it out on a cutting board, directly in front of him. He removes the head and the tail and gets to work shredding the fish into strips. 

“Can you retrieve three potatoes for me, Will?” Hannibal asks, mid-way through. 

Will gives a jerky nod, doing as he’s told. 

He watches Hannibal intently, expectantly, as he cooks. He doesn’t let up until the dish is finished cooking and he is garnishing their plates. 

“Do you know what you just made?” Will asks softly, hoping. 

“I believe it is called Bacalhau à Brás,” Hannibal explains, pronouncing the dish perfectly. “And while it is usually garnished with black olives, I am sure we will make do with green.” 

“It’s maddening,” Will says so quietly Hannibal has to ask him to repeat himself. 

Will bristles and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. 

“You know the recipes, you know how to play piano. You can switch from language to language around the locals like it’s nothing. You reference Dante, but you still…”

“Those suffering from amnesia rarely forget their skills. Or, I should say muscle memory has nothing to do with my condition.” 

“I know,” Will says. “I just keep expecting you to remember.”

“In due time, I’m sure. Shall we eat?” 

“Why are you so lackadaisical about this? Don’t you want to remember who you are? Where you come from? Who your enemies are, what you’ve done. Who you–” Will laughs bitterly. “You know what? Knowing you, you’re probably loving this.” 

“I take no pleasure in hurting you,” Hannibal responds sincerely. He does not mind the absence of his memory as much as Will Graham appears to. If he could snap his fingers and bring them all back in an instant, he would do it for his sake alone. 

This reply does not bring Will any form of solace. 

Will’s fists clench and unclench before he grabs his plate and retreats to his study. 

Under normal circumstances, Hannibal feels as if he would chastise Will for poor manners, but he’ll let it slide this time. As long as he doesn’t get any of this Portuguese delicacy on the furniture. 

Will continues drinking. He’s emptying the wine rack fairly quickly. 

One night, Hannibal walks in on Will passed out on the couch, shoes on, cheeks wet with drying tears. There is an empty wine bottle on the coffee table. At first Hannibal thinks the tears are from the strain of staying awake so late, and waking so early, but he passes the trash bin on the way out of the living room and something shiny catches his eye. 

He glances inside to see a gold band on the top of crumpled papers. 

Hannibal glances to where Will is out cold, and wonders why he never told him he was married. He hadn’t noticed the ring, so Will must have already taken it off long before he’d decided to throw the ring away. A declaration for no one other than himself, perhaps. 

He runs through the options. 

Asking Will about his marriage and upsetting him doesn’t seem the best choice. Perhaps he’ll prod for information if Will brings it up himself, but he won’t ask for the sake of privacy. 

When the weekend rolls around, Hannibal decides not to allow Will to drink alone. 

He sits beside him on the couch after turning on some classical Fado music. The singer is female, singing a slow and elongated Portuguese tune. It sounds romantic and solemn even with the upbeat guitar strumming. He’d turned it down low enough that he could hear Will speak. 

“Is this how it is going to be, Will?” Hannibal asks, popping the cork on a new bottle of wine. It is white, opposing Will’s red. “Alcohol poisoning before you reach your middle age?” 

“It helps,” he grumbles back, taking a large swig from his bottle. 

Hannibal doesn’t want to get drunk, but he is also painfully far behind Will who is already reaching past the point of tipsy. His eyes are nearly bloodshot, and his cheeks are pink. 

“Does pretending I don’t exist help?” Hannibal adds.

Will looks to him for a moment, fingers twitching around the nozzle of the wine bottle. He shakes his head, “N–No, I’m not pretending that.”

“You are mourning for a man still alive,” Hannibal presses. “I see it in your eyes, I can smell the sorrow on your skin. Must I remind you I am still the man you know?”

Will shakes his head, eyes welling up. He is at his most sensitive when he’s drunk. 

“You’re not,” Will argues. “All the right parts are there. Like a boat motor that refuses to work, even after you fix it. There is nothing missing, but it doesn’t rev up. The engine is dead, and there’s no explanation. You remember everything, but you don’t remember me.”

“I do not remember quite a few people, Will. I don’t remember anyone in fact.” 

“They don’t matter,” Will snaps. “I’m the one you should remember, and there’s nothing there. Not even a glimpse of a memory. You had a whole palace, whenever you wanted you could go there and relive anything. With one idiotic decision, I demolished that palace.” 

Hannibal holds back a playful comment about how it is a bit presumptuous to assume Will is the only person worth remembering, because he has an odd feeling that might be very correct. 

“Did you want us to die when you pulled us over the precipice?” 

Will shakes his head. 

“It wasn’t about wanting to die. It wasn’t even about wanting to live. That moment, Hannibal, if you could remember that moment, you’d understand.” 

“Are you satisfied that we lived?” 

Will stiffens, and chugs more of his wine before slamming the bottle down on the coffee table. 

“I was, for a moment I was. But, now. I feel like this is Hell, my punishment for doing what I did. I get you, but I _don’t_ get you. It’s some cruel joke.” 

His words are slurring together, and his teeth are grinding together with every intake of breath, but Hannibal still has the urge to keep prying, keep drawing his pain out of him. It should frighten him that he wants to do so out of curiosity, rather than take comfort in any of the therapeutic excuses he could be chalking this up to. 

“You are afraid,” Hannibal tells him. “Tell me why.” 

Will laughs, face stretched beserkley as he does. 

“Oh hell, we’re back to therapy are we?”

_Therapy. Have we been in therapy together? Have I been his therapist?_

Will can see the confusion pass through his features, so he doesn’t elaborate. As much as Hannibal wants him to, there are often times where Will does not want to speak of their past.

“I’m afraid that you’ll never regain your memories. I’m afraid that I’ll have to be in charge of our lives while we’re on the run. I’m afraid we’ll never kill again, and that it will make us despise each other. I’m afraid you’ll never know who I am.” 

“Quite a handful of fears,” Hannibal notes sympathetically.

Will nods, leaning his elbows forward to rest on his knees. He buries his face in his hands, “You told me you would remember,” his voice is muffled into his skin. “You told me once that if you saw me every day, you would remember that one moment in time.” 

Hannibal’s brow furrows, head tingling with pain and warmth. The words almost nudge him to recall something, but he reaches back into the darkness of his mind and finds nothing to grip onto. 

Except;

“The Uffizi Gallery in Florence.”

Will looks up, eyes glistening a mixture of disbelief and longing. 

“Can you remember?” he asks, voice gentle. It surprises Hannibal so often that he can return to this question so often, return to his optimism even after days of drowning his sorrows. 

“I can remember what the gallery looked like. I was sitting on a bench, I believe. I remember sketching, and hearing footsteps behind me. That is all I remember.” 

Will’s eyes widen, and he digs his nails into his own legs to a degree that looks painful. He keeps his eyes on Hannibal as he shifts closer, looking from his lips to his eyes, back to his lips. 

“Hannibal,” he swallows, pressing his lips together in a tight line as a current of emotions rush through him. Hannibal is shocked that such a weak memory has given way to such a response. He stares back at him with mirrored intensity, as it seems only kind, and it’s not as if he wants to look away from those icy blue eyes he has taken comfort in since he’d woken up. 

Hannibal opens his mouth to speak, and Will swoops in to kiss him. 

The surprise is enough to keep Hannibal frozen in place, eyes wide as Will licks into his mouth with unbridled desperation. He grasps Hannibal’s face in his hands, pressing closer. “Hannibal,” he murmurs against his lips. “Come back to me, please.” His kisses are starting to taste salty, and though Hannibal’s eyes have just slipped closed, he opens them again to see tears streaming down Will’s cheeks. 

“Hannibal, please, I can’t do this alone.” 

His words jumble out drunkenly, and his mouth tastes like red wine. Hannibal can chalk this up to a drunken mishap, but it seems more than that. 

Will is in love with him, and Hannibal wonders if he loved him as well. 

He realizes too late he hasn’t been kissing back, and Will starts to ebb off with the kissing in response, kissing his chin wetly and dropping his forehead to Hannibal’s shirt, gripping the fabric in his fists tightly. He doesn’t sob, but heaves silently, gripping tighter and tighter until Hannibal’s collar pulls too tight around his neck. 

He doesn’t ask Will to stop, just stretches an arm around his back and holds him close. 

“I killed you,” Will whispers after a few moments of serene silence. 

Hannibal knows disputing this will make him break down further. Will is in the process of rebuilding his forts and his defenses. He doesn’t want to demolish them, despite his urge to comfort him and keep him open on display. 

Seeming to register what he’d just done, Will loosens his fists and draws back, looking at Hannibal’s face with a mortified understanding.

Hannibal strokes his cheek, not sure why he wants to. 

“I am right beside you,” he assures, but it does not help. 

Will grabs his bottle of wine from the coffee table and retreats to his bedroom. He’s quite sure he’s never met a jumpier man, even if he could remember. 

Hannibal is left with his thoughts, mostly empty aside from the few weeks of memory he has accumulated. What he does think about is how he regrets not kissing Will back. 

* * *

Hannibal believed their life here on the coast would only become more strained as the days following that night passed them by. 

He is sorely mistaken.

Will becomes softer, kinder. He is more readily able to accept their life here for the foreseeable future, rather than acting like they will be attacked or forced to leave at any given moment. 

He spends almost all of his free time with Hannibal, allowing himself to grow comforted around his presence rather than keep himself in defense mode. 

Will doesn’t mention the kiss, and neither does Hannibal. 

It seems Will doesn’t want to remain miserable, and Hannibal can’t very well take that away from him. Not when they’ve come so far, especially in the past few weeks.

Hannibal wants to ask about their relationship, he still wants to ask about Will’s marriage, but he remains quiet, and cooks for them. He draws as well, happy to discover he still has a wonderful knack for it. Will poses for him occasionally, a notable occasion on the roof terrace as the sun set behind the warm, rolling waves of the Atlantic. 

He’d worn a white shirt, half the buttons opened, and tight shorts. 

Hannibal wonders if he’d meant it to be tantalizing. 

Will begins to tell him stories of their past. Many of the stories are about the murders Will had investigated and Hannibal had committed. Hannibal is not shocked that Will doesn’t seem bothered by any of the gruesome displays he’d come across in his time. Of course he wouldn’t be, he’s in love with a killer, or at least that’s what the situation appears to be. 

Hannibal is teaching Will how to tango one evening. 

It is a month after they kissed, enough time to no longer feel any awkward post-tension in relation to physical touch. Will had wanted to learn a dance the second Hannibal had mentioned, “I believe I have a knack for it.” 

“Of course you do,” had been the grumbling, yet fond response. 

Tango seemed the obvious option, where they are living, but Hannibal had been attracted to the sensuality of the dance. He won’t admit it for Will’s sake, but it is true nonetheless. 

“Forward with the left, forward with the right…that’s it, Will,” Hannibal instructs. Their gazes are both on the floor, watching each other’s feet. “Follow my lead.”

“Always,” Will teases, with a smirk. 

They fall into somewhat of a rhythm, save for the times Will breaks it with a small stumble or the wrong step. Hannibal takes each mistake in stride, showing Will how to improvise in such a case. Will is grinning not long after they manage to take a few steps forward and back.

The music they have on is purely a piano piece, dropping and picking up in tempo repetitively as they move in tandem. 

There is an almost erotic beat to the music, unsurprisingly, and Will doesn’t shy away from it, presenting himself as an open and receptive dance partner. Hannibal moves forward, and Will mirrors the motion, insinuating his thigh as close he can between his legs without ruining the step. 

Hannibal spins them around when the music picks up, moving Will back against the wall, not pressing him up against it, but nearly. 

It is almost a game, Will swerves them back around, huffing a laugh as he dance-chases Hannibal back to the middle of the room. Hannibal lowers his arm around his waist and manages to get him to lean back, swerve a little in mid air until he is drawn back up. He grips Hannibal’s shoulders for balance. 

“I can’t believe you just dipped me.” 

“More of a partial dip,” Hannibal jokes. “You handled it quite well.”

“Yeah?” 

They dance slower for another few beats, before Will’s hand drops to Hannibal’s arm, and a look of reminiscence passes over his face. 

“Tell me,” Hannibal implores. 

“I used to think your murders were something of a dance for you. Back when the Chesapeake Ripper was at his most prolific, it was like a dance that the FBI couldn’t keep up with, every part of your design was meticulated, three steps ahead. I found it alluring, in a way.” 

“Is that why you joined me?” Hannibal asks, turning them and moving Will back towards the large window on the east side of their home. The sun has long since set, and the night is appearing nearly as navy as the curtains in their living room.

“It was more than that,” Will murmurs. “I have my own design.” 

“Perhaps you’d be willing to show me one day,” Hannibal suggests, growing closer to him, stroking a hand down Will’s waist and curling his fingers under his thigh and bending his leg close to his body as the music picks up again. Will isn’t hard, but Hannibal can smell his arousal like a fine wine, leaning close to his neck to whisper, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Of course they’ve witnessed each other’s designs already, but this is a chance for Hannibal to witness Will’s all over again. If Will wants to. They can kill together, and Will can make him see. 

Will shudders, and steps back. 

Fate is on his side, as the song comes to a close. The piano drifts off, crescendoing into silence. Will is flushed from head to toe, and Hannibal is certain it isn’t just because of their proximity. 

The offer stands. 

“Goodnight Hannibal,” Will says, walking stiffly to his bedroom. 

Hannibal smirks, feeling something familiar swirling around in his gut. 

* * *

“I found one,” Will announces a week and a half later. 

Hannibal is stirring batter for the raspberry muffins he’s been working on all afternoon. He raises his brows and Will huffs, frustrated. He slides a manilla folder across the counter, and Hannibal winces. 

Too close to the food. 

Hannibal opens the folder and sorts through the papers. A picture of a man, an address, a criminal record. The man is a pimp of some sorts, as well as a drug dealer. It appears many have died from the drugs he sells, and yet he keeps portioning out the same dosages.

An offering. 

“Do you need my approval?” Hannibal asks plainly, going back to stirring.

Will blinks, shakes his head.

“I thought you would like to know.”

Hannibal smiles, staring down at the place his wooden spoon cuts through the batter. “Oh Will,” he sighs, “I would trust you to lead me to our prey and set me loose. You needn’t prepare me. While my memories are lost, my deviance is very much intact. As is my faith in you.” 

He looks up just in time to see the blush on Will’s cheeks, and his blue eyes, yearning. He clears his throat and looks around the room, snatching the folder back from the counter. 

“I’ll make the arrangements then.” 

“Will,” Hannibal starts, and Will swerves half way around, not making eye contact. “Do not rely on your confidence that this will cure my affliction. Raising your expectations in any way will result in disappointment. I want you to _delight_ in this, not _tolerate_ it just to see if I can be cured.” 

Something about the words makes Will jittery, and he glances frantically around the kitchen while he thinks. Without making eye contact, he nods briskly, and struts away. 

Hannibal wonders what he said to make him respond in such a way. Perhaps he’d reminded Will of something he himself had long since forgotten. 

* * *

They set up a drug deal with Dan Leitão on the beach, a mile from their villa. 

It had been fairly easy to make connections in town, set a meeting time for the late evening. When tourists would be scarce, and the night would shroud any proceedings in shadows. 

They decide to walk the entire way to the meeting site, and Will stays two steps in front of Hannibal, kicking shells, and keeping his hands buried in his pockets. The wind whips through his curls which have been growing longer since they’d left their ship at the boatyards.

“Why will you not step foot in the water, Will?” Hannibal asks. 

“Too many bad associations,” Will snarks, keeping his head forward.

Hannibal takes a few easy strides until he is by his side and Will tenses, keeping his eyes on the way he is leaving footprints in the fluffy sand. The water moans beside them, splashing up the coastline, not far from their heels, but still far enough away to be a distant noise. 

“I would like to see you in the water again,” Hannibal tells him. 

“Again?” Will asks gruffly. “You’ve never seen me in the water. You don’t remember.” 

“Did I pass out when I hit the water?” 

Will nods. “I had to drag you to land. You were only somewhat conscious when we lugged ourselves up the steps to get back to the house. You were out the second you hit the couch.” 

Hannibal hums in thought. “I believe you hold an irrational fear that you will become like me if you allow yourself in the water again. That is not the case.” 

“It’s not an irrational fear, I know it wouldn’t happen. It doesn’t mean I’m going to succumb to the temptations of fate. I prefer my feet planted on solid ground, where there’s nothing sinking and pulling me in another direction. I pull myself in a direction, land doesn’t pull me. I’d rather walk the plank for a lifetime than make that leap.” 

“You worry about what you cannot control.” 

Hannibal empathizes. He has no control over his memories, whether he will retrieve them or not. His life now would be much easier if he knew from experience how to take care of Will, deal with him when he finds himself in certain moods. 

“I want–” Will nearly stops in his tracks but straightens out his posture and walks faster. Hannibal keeps up with him. “I want solutions.”

It is another ten minutes of walking under the stars until they spot a group of two men huddling between a large boulder and a border wall lining this beach from the villas (which don’t look nearly as nice as Hannibal and Will’s property). One of them points at Will and the other nods. 

As they approach, Hannibal takes stock of the beach. There is little land between the water and the brick wall. The tide might reach them before they achieve their goals. 

Hannibal and Will close in on them, and Will acclimates to their personalities like he does this every day. Hannibal watches him with intrigue, as they chat about the local girls. 

They had read up on Dan and discovered not only is he a pimp, but most likely a patron of human trafficking as well as an employer. In a sly manner, Will manages to get him to admit as such under the guise he’d be willing to buy a woman if Dan named the right price. 

“Who’s your friend here?” Dan asks in thickly accented English. He nods at Hannibal.

Will looks at Hannibal, then to Dan’s own friend, standing tall and muscular over Dan but not having much girth or strength compared to Hannibal. 

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Protection,” Dan says with a shrug. “You know how business is.”

Will glances at Hannibal, an expression of devotion laced within his ferocious gaze. Admiration sets off like a fire in Hannibal’s belly. 

“I know,” Will answers, his dagger slipping out of his sleeve in the same second he jabs it into the neck of Dan’s bodyguard. 

Dan shrieks, backing up out of instinct, but Hannibal’s instincts are faster. He latches around Dan’s body like a snake, stringing an arm around his throat and closing it until he can’t breathe. 

The wriggling struggle of a body fighting for its life against his own is more than exhilarating. It feels like the scratch Hannibal had yet to itch, and he sighs heavily, indulging in Dan’s throaty noises that quickly become strained. Following this, his cheeks become purple-red from the asphyxiation, veins start popping. 

_I’ll show you mine if you show me yours._

Hannibal’s eyes shoot open, and he looks to Will who is dragging his knife down the bodyguard’s chest, eyes shot with adrenaline and lust. Lust for power, for blood. 

Hannibal feels a surge of love, desire, need for him, but he channels it all into choking the life out of the man in his arms. 

Later, perhaps. 

Will staggers to his feet, jacket covered in blood. He shrugs it off, tucking it in their duffel bag so no passersby on the way home will make any comments. He finally, _finally,_ looks to Hannibal and watches him intently, making hard eye contact as Hannibal continues to squeeze. 

No memories, not thoughts, just urges, instincts.

Hannibal wants to bite, wants to tear into flesh. Dan’s ear is so close he could tear it right off his head, watch the blood ooze and splash out of the wound, feel it warm and tangy on his tongue. Before he can consider putting his thoughts into action, the body slumps against him.

_Dead._

He drops it to the beach floor, and the tide brushes up against his shoes, against the corpse. 

Will sidles up to him, asking with his eyes, begging. 

Hannibal shakes his head, not bothering with a response, and Will groans, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, practically keeling over with the force of the silent blow. Hannibal reaches out to touch his shoulder in consolation, but Will swats him away. 

When he takes his hands away from his eyes, he’s looking at him with a snarl and eyes that don’t look so blue drenched with such intense savagery. 

He surges forward and punches Hannibal square in the jaw. 

Hannibal stumbles back, touching his face to feel where the bruise will eventually start forming. He doesn’t get reprieve, getting slapped this time, so hard he stumbles back into the water, on his hands and feet, staring up at the glorious monster before him.

Unleashed.

Will’s hair looks black in the night, blood that is staining his skin sticking to him like sweat. Hannibal senses his power, his determination, his anguish. 

Will drops to his knees and pushes Hannibal’s head under the water. 

For only a moment, Hannibal thinks Will is going to drown him, but the water isn’t deep enough. The tide is dragging itself backwards and Hannibal is sputtering salt water from his mouth. “Remember, damn it!” Will pushes him back under when the waves crash in, further this time. This isn’t the baptism they’d experienced on the cliffside, the joining of souls. This is closer to that of a Vikings funeral, burning the last remaining bridges between them. 

Will falls back, half soaked from the tide. 

He is shaking heavily, a strained whine coming from his throat as he continues to catch his breath. He watches Hannibal, waiting for the revelation, the _memories_ to come. 

They don’t.

Hannibal heaves, and they stare at each other under the moonlight, at an impasse. 

Will’s eyes glaze over and he shakes his head, clumsily moving to stand. He doesn’t offer Hannibal a hand or say anything as he moves down the beach, back in the direction of their villa. 

Hannibal had warned him against hoping, but it seems Will couldn’t help himself. He thought this would do the trick, thought they could recreate whatever had occurred between them when they’d killed Francis Dolarhyde. 

What Hannibal hadn’t expected, was to feel the ache of disappointment as well. Not straight after such a release. 

Will is staggering off into the distance, further and further from Hannibal as he goes. Hannibal is still sitting in the water, waves crashing up, encasing his hips. He is drenched from head to toe. The assaults had done nothing to help. 

He stands eventually, when he can no longer see Will. 

He moves to the bodies, grabbing the duffel bag, and Will’s dagger from the bodyguard’s chest. 

Hannibal can’t leave. There is something he must do, but he does not know what.

An urge deep in his gut rises up and up until he can’t stand it anymore, leaning down to lift up Dan’s shirt, and cut him open. 

Cleanly and efficiently he guts him, fills the duffle bag lined with Will’s jacket with organs, as many as he can fit inside. He had picked up on the man’s scent and discovered that while he had been a drug dealer, he never sampled the product. The organs are untarnished. 

When he’s finished, he sets the bodies out to sea. They will make their way somewhere else, and perhaps then, Dan’s empty stomach will be blamed on vicious sea life. 

Hannibal doesn’t know what he’s doing, bringing a bag of organs back to their home. 

It will only upset Will further, he’s sure of it. He doesn’t even know what he wants to do with them, so how will he manage to explain? 

Will is already a third of the way through an expensive wine bottle when Hannibal makes it home, and Will doesn’t turn to look at him, doesn’t acknowledge him.

Hannibal brings the bag to the kitchen and sets the organs out across the counter, lining them up in a row. Brain, heart, lungs, kidneys, spleen, pancreas, even tongue.

He doesn’t know how long he stares down at them when Will finally wanders into the kitchen with an apology on his lips. He skids to a stop on the tile floor when he sees what’s on the countertop. 

They stare at each other, both harboring incredulous expressions.

“Why?” Will asks, though his voice is tinged with wonder, not the displeasure Hannibal had anticipated. “Why did you take those?” 

“I’m not sure,” Hannibal starts slowly, “what I am doing.” 

It’s not an act, and Will can immediately see that. 

His eyes light up and he crosses his arms, nodding towards the meat. 

“You had an urge to take them didn’t you?”

Hannibal nods.

“What are your urges telling you to do now?” 

They stare at each other, and Hannibal smiles darkly, fully understanding.

“To do what I do best.”

Will sucks in sharp breath, relief wracking his body. 

“I’ll set the table.” 

* * *

Will keeps his eyes on Hannibal the entire time he is bringing their food to the table. The main dish is heart, but the kidneys have been sliced into strips of bacon, and the lungs have been cut into cold slabs on the side. Each plate is garnished, and Will lights candles. 

It feels like a step forward, and Hannibal’s head is pounding by the time he sits down.

He’d discovered quickly when he’d first woken up, his pain tolerance is high. This is no exception, though it is bordering on excessive. 

The harder Will stares at him, the more his head pounds. His blood feels hot under the suit he’d changed into, though his body itself feels cool.

Will cuts into the heart in front of him, bringing the meager slab of meat to his lips before enveloping it. He makes a content sound in the back of his throat, swallowing it down after ten seconds of chewing. His eyes flutter open, glazed over with pleasure. 

The clock in the silent dining room appears to click louder than a minute prior. 

Hannibal expertly slices off a piece of his own heart. The meat steams up, warm against his lips as his nostrils flare to take in the savory scent. He closes his mouth over his fork, sliding the piece of meat off of it with his lips. His eyes shoot open when he tastes fear. 

_The meat is bitter about being dead._

His head stops pounding, and the clock returns to a normal volume.

Once he swallows, he turns to Will who is alight with nerves and anticipation. 

“I remember,” he declares, lips spreading into a devilish smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> i've thought about writing a story that is basically this but entirely in will's perspective, and i want to write one in the series where they finally boink and figure things out with hannibal's memories restored obviously. if you guys think that'd be cool, lemme know! i have no gauge for these things. 
> 
> also if you wanna look at the property i was inspired by when writing about their villa in Baia Das Gatas;  
> http://www.globespanproperty.com/property_sale.php?id=1344746


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